


With strength the road forward to tread

by kameo_chan



Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, M/M, Missing Scene, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-25
Updated: 2012-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-06 00:09:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kameo_chan/pseuds/kameo_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>For the first time since leaving Calleva, he feels like a whole man again.</i>
</p><p>A "missing scene" set after Marcus and Esca make their way back home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With strength the road forward to tread

The Selgovae had been a generous, if distant, people.

Marcus looks to his injured leg, carefully bound and thinks of the healing poultices and salves Guern’s widow had administered to it. They had worked wonders; easing the deep lancing pain of the infection and the persistent ache the cold wrought upon it. 

Murna had thanked them quietly in broken Latin for Guern’s funeral, and had then conversed rapidly and at length with Esca in the common tongue of their people. Her tears had been few, but bitter and honest in their grief nonetheless and Marcus admired her for her fortitude. He’d seen far too many Roman wives who wept in excess, though they did not truly mourn the loss of their husbands as Murna did. Shortly thereafter, they had left gifted with furs and rations and more poultices for Marcus’ leg. 

Murna had seen them off from the village, the only of her people to do so, before fading away into the mists of the forest like a half-remembered dream. 

Today had been their fourth day on from Selgovae lands, and though much of Caledonia still lies between them and the Wall, Marcus feels a rare sense of peace from his place by the camp fire. For the first time since leaving Calleva, he feels like a whole man again. The eagle is stowed safely away in one of his saddlebags, ready to return home and restore his family’s good name as well as his father’s honor. 

And by all rights, he should feel as proud as he does peaceful after the harrowing events of the past few weeks. After all, what other Roman could claim a deed of such great sacrifice such as his? 

That, of course, is where it all falls apart. 

His days are spent riding with a strange, hesitant sort of silence hanging like an invisible shroud between him and Esca; one he is too tentative to break for fear of saying something erroneous. And at night, he whiles away the hours awake, watching Esca sleep stiffly and fitfully a hand’s breadth away if he sleeps in camp at all. Esca himself is distant and close-mouthed, though not unkindly so and it is this more than anything else that makes him want to tear his hair out. Marcus cannot help the ache that settles in his chest at this new awkwardness between them any more than he can help the dull throbbing of his leg after a long, hard day in the saddle. 

Tonight will be no different, not if Esca’s conspicuous absence from their small, sheltered camp again is any indication. So Marcus sits and alternates between staring at his leg and tending the fire and he tries not to contemplate too deeply the reason for Esca’s silences in daylight and his disappearances at night. 

*** 

It is late out when Marcus wakes, warm and comfortable with furs piled high across his chest and legs and for a moment, he imagines himself back in his bed at the barracks at Isca Dumnoniorum. But his mind clears swiftly at the sight of the fire which has died down considerably in the intervening hours since he’d last stoked and fed it. He must have fallen asleep awaiting Esca’s return, he decides, shifting to make himself more comfortable and keep the icy bite of the wind at bay. 

It is only then that he realizes that his head is propped against something far less solid than a log and far sturdier than a pile of furs. There are hands clasped loosely about his neck and behind him he can feel the steady rise and fall of a chest inhaling and exhaling, lightly and evenly. 

“Esca?” he asks, voice still slurred with the remains of Somnus’ potent draught. 

“I am here,” Esca answers; tightening his hold and leaning forward so that Marcus can see him. In the flickering firelight, his hair is a deep gold and his features seem softer, somehow more open than they do by light of day. 

Marcus digs with his elbows, finding purchase enough on the packed earth on either side of him to raise himself into a sitting slouch. He wonders for a moment if Esca will withdraw his embrace, but to his relief, Esca remains warm and solid at Marcus’ back, moving only to adjust the circle of his arms to a more comfortable angle. 

“Thank you. I tried to remain awake until you returned,” Marcus says and the words feel silly as they leave his mouth, foolish even. It reminds him of his childhood, when he had spent his days waiting in the fields that lay sprawled around his family’s farm, eagerly watching the winding dirt track for any sign of his father coming home. He does not dwell upon the old stab of betrayal and heartache he had felt upon learning that his father would never again return to him. It is too close to what he feels when Esca slips away into the woods once evening arrives. 

Esca does not say anything for some time and by the time he does speak, Marcus is taken by surprise, thinking him perhaps asleep. 

“I am sorry.” The words are brittle and mumbled and Marcus has to turn them over in his mind a moment or two before the meaning behind them becomes clear to him. 

“For what?” 

“For how you were treated among the people of the Seal Clan,” comes Esca’s reply. “I did not mean for you to suffer as you did.” There is a curious thread of emotion in Esca’s voice, something Marcus cannot wholly put a name to. It is almost as though he is waiting for some signal from Marcus, a sign of how to proceed. 

Marcus breathes deep before answering, the smell of alder and moss sharp and overwhelming in the night air. “No,” he says. “You are not.” 

Esca’s hands twitch involuntarily, his fingers digging briefly into the stiff, travel-worn cotton of Marcus’ tunic. 

“You are not, because no man forced to serve another will ever feel sorry to see those who oppressed him subjugated in like fashion. Such a man might feel sympathy perhaps, but never regret or remorse.” With every word he speaks, Esca’s hands clench tighter and tighter, fisting into his clothing and leaving his knuckles standing out stark and white. 

“And I cannot blame you that you feel as you do, Esca,” Marcus continues. “Because watching you feast and hunt and talk with the others, pretending that I was no more than a simple-minded creature too pathetic to pay attention to, I hated you.” 

At his back, Marcus imagines he can feel the frantic rabbiting of Esca’s heart, the venomous sting of anger burning hot in his veins. But Esca’s voice is as smooth as a river stone when he speaks, releasing his death grip on Marcus’ tunic; tone even and strangely resonant. 

“You know now, the hate the captive bear toward the free, and how terrible a fate the life of a slave is. I know the hatred you harbor well. For the longest time, it was my only companion. And in that you are right Marcus. _I am not sorry_.” 

“I know. But I do not bear that hate any longer, Esca” Marcus soothes, tilting his head up to give Esca a wry smile. “I cannot, even if I wished to. I lost my taste for it by the river the day you stood beside me in battle, bearing a shield and sword of Rome though you loathe everything the Empire stands for.” 

“The choice was clear,” Esca says simply. “I could not leave behind a friend.” 

“The son of the Seal clan’s chieftain was a friend to you too,” Marcus points out quietly, but Esca shakes his head, the motion slow and rhythmic against Marcus’ temple. 

“No, he was an equal. I have met his like before among other clans. I thought him a man worthy of my respect, but it was not he whom I counted as my friend among them.” Marcus’ mind is filled then with images of Esca, pale and trembling at the sight of the Seal Prince drawing a blade across his son’s throat. How terrible it must have been to behold the same act that had taken Esca’s mother from him performed on one so young and for whom Esca had held so much affection for. 

Not for the first time since their battle at the river does Marcus regret his words and actions on the morning they had fled the home of the Seal People. Esca had told him of the boy’s request during one of the freezing nights spent in hiding in the highlands, and had Marcus had even an inkling of what was to befall the boy he would have urged Esca to bring him with, consequences be damned. 

Esca seems to sense the dark direction his thoughts are turning to, and places a fist squarely over his heart. “There is nothing to be done about it, Marcus. He made his choice, a grave one though it was. Be thankful that we have our lives.” 

“I know,” Marcus replies, suddenly weary despite his earlier nap. “I know. Still, the cost of life was far greater than I’d ever imagined it setting out.” 

“It always is,” Esca concedes solemnly. For a time they remain thus, and though there is silence between them, it is not an uncomfortable one. Marcus thinks on all the things they have achieved together in the past few months, of the hardships he has endured and the lessons he has learned and finds that despite all that has happened, he is truly, genuinely content for the first time in a great many years. 

“I would never have let him harm you, you know,” Esca whispers suddenly, turning his face into the tousle of Marcus’ hair and breathing deep. “That is why I sought out Guern. I could not bear the thought of letting harm befall you, bound as I was.” 

“Because of your oath?” Marcus inquires. He knows of what Esca speaks and of whom and though he does not _want_ to ask this, his heart demands it of him. He still remembers the painful strength of Esca’s grip forcing his head back, the bitter taste of gall at the back of his throat at the thought of what suffering the Seal people would visit upon him. He must know whether or not there is more to the bond between them than the fetters of friendship and brotherhood, and if so, how much of it Esca is willing to admit to. 

Behind him, he feels Esca tense and shift again. 

“My oath, yes,” Esca agrees at length, and then more quietly: “But also because of what is in my heart.” There is a long moment of silence in which Marcus cannot distinguish the warm beat of the pulse in Esca’s throat from the slow crackle of the fire. When he turns his face towards Esca, there is a stern set to his mouth and his eyes are far off and troubled. 

“What of your heart?” Marcus urges, desperate. He knows that hedging Esca like this is a terrible thing to do, given what had happened the last time he’d pushed him too far. But there is a skein of molten fire coiling low and tight in his chest and his desire to know wins out over his common sense. 

Esca’s lips thin even further and his jaw twitches as though it has locked, but eventually he meets Marcus’ eyes. “My heart tells me I am a fool and that it is the fault of you and no other,” Esca answers, voice trembling. And in his eyes, Marcus can finally read the raw need and naked longing that has lain dormant and unanswered between them since they had first laid eyes on one another. 

“There you are,” Marcus smiles, cupping his face with one hand and pressing the pad of his thumb to the corner of Esca’s mouth. “I’ve waited for this far too long.” 

“I couldn’t come to you on bended knee, not as a slave,” Esca murmurs, eyes still bright and proud; his mouth still nothing more than a hard line. But his arms circle tighter about Marcus and he leans into the touch. “Not while you still saw me as such. But you freed me, and now...”

“I never wanted you to bow to me,” Marcus admits. “I would rather have you proud and haughty and by my side a thousand times over, than broken and bleeding at my feet, Esca. That day in the arena, what I admired most was your courage, your fire. I did not know them for what they were then and believed them to be weaknesses. But you are _not_ weak, could _never_ be weak even if you tried and more the fool was I for ever thinking it.”

“You are Roman,” Esca says as though it explains everything. And then finally, he smiles at Marcus. It is so small a gesture and yet so deeply moving and sweet; it lights up his entire face and leaves Marcus marveling at the fact that in all his life, he has never seen anything more beautiful. 

“Esca, is this truly what you long for? Are you certain that this is what you want?” he asks, just to be sure before laying his hand heavily over the steady beat of Esca’s heart. As an answer, Esca reaches out and envelops Marcus' hand with his own; letting their fingers twine together before bringing them to his lips.

“As certain as the rising of the sun,” he breathes against their knuckles. “Sure as the waxing and waning of the moon or that spring will follow winter. I am.” 

Marcus cannot help the grin that steals over his features then any more than he can help the way his hand drifts up to tangle in Esca’s tawny hair to draw him close. And when Esca gives in and follows him willingly down for a kiss, Marcus thinks no more of Rome or her eagles or anything save the fortuitous hand of fate that has led him, finally, to where he belongs.


End file.
